So I'm very slowly struggling through Lady Chatterly's Lover (look, I'm busy, okay? I'm writing a novel, and tutoring three nights a week, alright? free time is hard to come by) and I'm surprised by the, I don't know, by the lack of emotion in it, I suppose.

D.H. goes to a lot of trouble to detail how the Lady feels about her life in the drear mining town in England, about her decreasing respect and amiability for her husband (who is something of a bloodless, emotionless automaton; everything very logical with him, very orderly) and her increasing need for "humanity". When she hooks up with the gamekeeper though (oh, I'm not giving anything away; I'm barely half-way through -- how could I ruin the story for you?) there is no talking, no communication, just fucking, really. It seems strange to me, this woman who's tired of the abstraction of the world brought about by the Industrial revolution who's running towards someone who will feed her "human" side, by which she really means the intuitive animalistic need for warmth and comfort.

There's nothing wrong with it, I just don't see how love, compassion, reverence and all that other drivel on the back cover comes into it. Thus far it's been Doing Everything With Your Head and No Heart vs Doing Everything With Your Gut. I'm still waiting for the heart to feature prominently in anyone's actions.